


Glitter

by tasteofhysteria (orphan_account)



Category: Latin Hetalia - Fandom
Genre: This one is Not Nice, Warning: War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-04
Updated: 2012-09-04
Packaged: 2017-11-13 14:05:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/504305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/tasteofhysteria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone is out to get you again<br/>But I want you back<br/>Underneath my skin</p>
            </blockquote>





	Glitter

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Berseker](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Berseker/gifts).



Everyone (though neither of them could tell you exactly who Everyone was, but apparently Everyone was a bit of a gossip) said that they had something special.

Naturally, Luciano and Martín were inclined to disagree, because they always disagreed and agreed on nothing except disagreeing. That was how it always was. That’s how it had always been. It was part of their unspoken Arrangement, extant long enough to not be talked about or brought up, but old enough to warrant the capitalisation.

The political climate was neither brag-worthy nor degrading, or maybe it was shameful and they were simply too proud to see the cracks in the foundations that led to the first shots being fired across the riverbanks, so obsessed with holding an advantage over each other that they became deaf to the voices of the others calling out warnings until the only things they heard were the dull ringing of eardrums swollen by the sound of explosions.

A few years passed and the fighting was intense as ever, though it felt more like a habit than any true animosity (though it killed their children all the same, and that was a reason to keep fighting).

Today was infinitely different because today, someone had made a mistake. The Brazilians would later blame the Argentineans and the Argentineans would blame the Brazilians, but either way, there had been a mistake on  _someone’s_ side and mustard gas was pouring out like an oozing miasma over the trenches where friend and foe alike huddled together in their masks and prayed not to die.

In that crush of humanity fighting to breathe, Luciano and Martín found themselves smashed together uncomfortably, knees pressed together  and foreheads touching, with the press of other men at their backs keeping them from separating.

They sat there for hours, staring at each other silently as their breath became shorter, because gas masks were wasted on them, since they couldn’t die. Not permanently, anyway. So Martín had passed his on to an ill-equipped soldier days ago, though Luciano’s was still clipped to his belt.

(And he secretly marvelled that Martín could do something so selfless, though Luciano expected it was probably the result of another of his “grand gestures” that he never thought through fully.)

 Black hair tangled lightly with Martín’s blonde, though one could hardly tell since they were all painted the same colour by mud and cruor. Luciano was a little amazed; that Martín would deign to subject himself to something as filthy as  _fighting_ with his men instead of sitting prettily in Buenos Aires with a glass of fine Italian wine in his hand, giving orders without any idea of the full consequence.

But then he thought maybe he wasn’t giving Martín enough credit; the Argentine hated dirt with a passion, but he loved his people even more fiercely, so. That was probably why. Even though it wasn’t hard to imagine Martín carrying on as normal in Buenos Aires, maybe with Daniel and Sebastián at his sides, one cousin smiling happily while the other looked on in fond exasperation—

Luciano’s gaze fell guiltily.

They hadn’t heard anything from Uruguay in days, maybe weeks now.

He sensed Martín staring at him more intently and opened his mouth—

“Sebastián is fine. Or as fine as he can be,” Martín cut him off venomously, “he won’t die, no matter how badly you want him to.”

“I don’t want him to die!” Luciano hissed back (wondering if his thoughts had been so plain on his face that even someone as self-absorbed as  _Martín_ could read them), “I don’t want  _anyone_ to die! I’m tired of people dying!”

There was a dull thud a few feet from them. They glanced up in unison to see a pair of men falling sideways, one in a Brazilian uniform and the other in an Argentinian uniform, both their hands tangled up in the same rosary as they succumbed to the gas.

The air escaped from Luciano’s lungs all at once as he stared at the men, whom just a moment ago had been mumbling prayers together in different languages but had been wanting the same thing. He clenched his eyes shut and opened them wide a second later, taking in a deep breath and looking back to Martín. The blonde was still staring at the fallen soldiers with a tight expression, chapped and teeth-abused lips parted slightly and green eyes glassy.

“So after this,” Luciano mumbled hoarsely, “after this, are we calling it quits?”

They both flinched at the sound of another dull thud somewhere further down the trench and the alarmed flutter of Portuguese that followed it.

 “Are we?”

The air was growing thick and almost oily on their tongues, oleaginous and burning unbearably in their noses and throats as the direction of the wind changed.

And stupidly, Luciano thought, Martín was starting to hyperventilate like a moron. Well, there was no helping bred idiocy. He groped for the clip that held the gas mask to his belt with clumsy, uncertain fingers, blinking several times as the world flashed dimly and tilted unsteadily. At last the mask came loose from its bindings and Luciano stared at it, feeling lightheaded and half-forgetting why he’d pulled it out in the first place until Martín’s sudden heavy coughing cut through to his brain.

His free hand seized the back of Martín’s neck and pulled him closer, so close that they may as well have been made of one body, though Martín squawked and struggled enough for three. Luciano sighed and rubbed his thumb in soothing circles against the small patch of skin just behind Martín’s ear, moving to brush the hair away from the Argentinean’s eyes even as Martín stared at him in mute shock.

He was, of course, startled when Luciano began to ease the gas mask on over his face, clutching tightly at Luciano’s wrists as if Luciano was trying to kill him, which might not have been an unreasonable belief if the circumstances weren’t different. The Brazilian shushed him quietly, working shackled wrists free and adjusting the straps to Martín’s head properly before leaning back to rest on his heels and examine his handiwork.

“You look stupid,” Luciano said honestly. He wanted to grin when he saw Martín bristling at his words, but everything seemed a little funnier at the moment. His throat burned like a desert and his head felt empty and light, like he’d had far too much to drink or had laughed until he couldn’t breathe anymore. So with a bright smile, Luciano leaned forward and pressed his lips to Martín’s forehead, framing Martín’s face between his hands.

“This isn’t me letting you win. This is just me giving you a little elbow room.”

The world flickered and tilted again and Luciano tilted with it and distantly heard another of those too-familiar thuds even as he was suddenly inhaling dust and mud and then nothing at all.


End file.
